


Pleas to the Dead

by aykayem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Potter Next Generation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aykayem/pseuds/aykayem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a corridor in Hogwarts where there is a portrait of every single person who died fighting in the Second Wizarding War. Scorpius returns there year after year in an attempt to say the words his father never could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleas to the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this piece of headcanon](http://accioheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/27045992700/983-there-is-a-corridor-in-hogwarts-where-there-is-a).

Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was 16, a Ravenclaw Prefect, and virtually everything that his father thought was good in the world. He was that perfect combination of brilliant and snarky, with none of the prejudices the Malfoys of the past had been taught at a young age; he was taught to treat people as he would have liked to be treated, to have a healthy curiosity in whatever he damn well pleased, and to keep his head down if anyone started in on his family. He didn't listen to the last one: as far as Scorpius was concerned, no one could start in on his family under any circumstances.

That, however, was a story for another day.

It was the first day of school. The first years had been taken down to the Great Hall for Sorting, then brought back to the common room. It was nearly curfew, the Prefects were making their rounds about the still-extensive castle, keeping watch for students out of bed. As usual, there were very few; everyone was too excited to be back, too excited to see their friends and catch up like they might not have been able to on the train. There were six weeks of stories to catch up on, to be told around the fireplace crackling in front of overstuffed chairs, beneath the portraits who were glad not to be quite as alone any more; no one could really be arsed to sneak out so early in the school year. There wasn't even any homework to catch up on, and even the Ravenclaws were socialising amongst themselves.

But not Scorpius. Even if he weren't a Prefect, he'd have been out there; it was his tradition now. One he didn't tell his friends about, not Albus or Rose or any of the others, not his mother, especially not his father. Not Aunt Pansy, who was an auntie in title only, and because Scorpius refused to submit to his father's amused murmurs to call her an old hag just to see how she'd react. He had a vague memory of having done so when he was small, and it not going well.

He found himself in that one corridor, the one that had been rebuilt without any of the classrooms that had once branched away from it. The one that students tended to avoid unless they were curious about history, or had a sort of morbid obsession with the dead. Scorpius had nothing against the dead; they were interesting enough company, to be sure, but not the sort of friends he wanted to make for life. He had the living for that. But this visit had a particular sort of significance to him, and that was the reason he made the same trip, year after year, without fail.

The people in the portraits nodded to him or ignored him, according to their preference and how close he was to them. He greeted each in turn, periodically glancing over the names scribed upon the frames. The only things they had in common were the year of their death - 1998, the Battle of Hogwarts - and no matter how many times he heard about it, Scorpius was unable to listen with quite as much objectivity as he ought to have. It was hard. He wasn't sure that he wanted to lose that part of him that cared, either: he couldn't help the way he felt suddenly sad whenever he saw that brief flicker of loss cross his father's face, nor the way he grew awkward when his parents and their friends grew quiet over their wine at dinner if the wrong thing was said.

He finally found himself in front of the portrait he'd been looking for. Vincent Crabbe glowered down at the hallway, pointedly avoiding looking at anyone. He hadn't been the most pleasant in life, Scorpius had heard from his mother, and it seemed like that crossed over into death. Part of him wondered why the son of a Death Eater made it onto the memorial wall, but was quickly quashed by the rest of him, admonishing that small part for daring to think that way when the Dark Mark still writhed on his own father's forearm, faded into near nothingness by the years since Voldemort's death. Scorpius swallowed, stopping and looking up at the young man his father had once called 'friend'. At least belatedly.

"School's back in," he started, and the Crabbe in the portrait rolled his eyes, turning away. Scorpius remained undeterred, pursing his mouth. "I'm back again. Only one more year after this, then I'm graduated.

"I know you still don't forgive my father for what he did to you. I don't know details; he doesn't talk about it much. But I know he wants to apologise. I don't know what happened between the two of you, but it didn't have to end up this way. You could have talked, it was the logical thi-"

Scorpius cut himself off, realising he was getting into a very one-sided plea with a portrait that wouldn't reply. He leaned back, realising that he was nearly off-balance for leaning forward in his fervour, and exhaled slowly before bringing grey eyes back up to the almost-familiar face before him.

"He didn't want any of this. I know he didn't. I know my father."

Crabbe continued to ignore him, as he always did year after year. And over the next year, Scorpius would try to develop a more eloquent way to convince the dead to forgive the sins of the living, returning once more on the last day of school. Three more visits, three more monologues to be made.

As Scorpius sighed, taking his leave down towards the other end of the corridor, Teddy Lupin sighed along with him, hidden at the far end, but well within earshot.


End file.
